Humility
by TheWorldInBlue
Summary: "You are most beautiful when bound, Son of None." His voice echoed in the stark, barren room. "Otherwise, you are a savage."


**A/N: **I needed to get this out of my, "Unfinished" folder, because it was really beginning to bug me. Therefore, it isn't the greatest, and the end is probably a disappointment for some... At any rate, I do hope you enjoy it! If I have enough people who like it, I might actually write a bit more. Thank you for your time!

Leather.

The finest leather, imported from the lands that lie east. Dark, sleek, and purposefully sinful, but strikingly beautiful, similar to a young virgin.

Leather wound tightly around his arms, pinning them to the back of the chair. Constricted at the base of his hard shaft, tapered tip sliding up the vein like pure silk.

Leather shadowed his eyes, wrapping around his head like a lover's deft fingers.

"You are most beautiful when bound, Son of None." His voice echoed in the stark, barren room. "Otherwise, you are a savage." Smooth crescendos and dips and sharp consonants slithered across his tongue; the language slipped easily into the Assassin's mind.

The aforementioned savage growled menacingly, certainly not changing the mind of the man in front of him. He didn't dare speak.

"Speechless, Altaïr? In battle your mouth is always moving." The Frenchman attempted to spare his thoughts from the mouth of the Assassin, for it always could be put to better use. That wasn't what he was after now. "Humility, perhaps? Or have you been stricken mute?" He smiled at the twitch of the Assassin's lip as he scowled. Bright green irises roamed slowly over the abused olive skin, exhaling languidly at the sight of every scar, every mark that marred the flesh. It was becoming increasingly difficult to control himself.

"Quiet yourself, Templar. I have no intention of wasting breath on you." The valor in his voice didn't once waver. The Frenchman was impressed, frankly. He pulled his sleek riding crop from its place tucked in his boot, and held it behind him. Black-gloved fingers skimmed over the crop, leather sliding smoothly over the soft velvet trim of the handle.

"The rise and fall of your chest suggests fear, Altaïr." The Assassin did not speak. "I applaud you for showing such courage in the face of death. That makes you different from your brothers."

And there it was.

A catch, a slight hitch in the steady breathing.

Bringing his crop forward without a moment's hesitation, Robert smacked it against Altaïr's face, striking him across the mouth. Caught off guard, Altaïr cried out in agony as a stinging red welt began to form over his chapped lips. Reflexes made his tongue dart over the injury.

Robert chuckled.

"Brave still, Altaïr? You lick at your wounds like an ego bruised feline." The Frenchman expected the harsh snarl he received afterwards.

"What use do you have of me here? If you dare kill me, then do it, for I will not tell you _anything_." Even the last word was a sound within itself, incapable of having description. Robert could not see the Assassin's eyes, though just the thought of doing so gave him a pleasurable chill. "Speak, Templar!"

Robert smacked him once again. Altaïr clenched his teeth, but no sound escaped.

"Your bravery is quickly turning to arrogance, Assassin." Robert bent forward, until his lips were level with Altaïr's. "Not wise for one in such a state, is it…?" He felt an uncomfortable but telltale tightness in his pants. He knew he wanted nothing more than the supercilious Assassin on his back, legs splayed and under his mercy, submitting to his every will no matter what it be. But, he would have to wait for that. Toying with Altaïr was far more pleasing than entertaining thoughts about his body.

"Torture me as much as you would like, Robert du Sable. I will give you nothing in return."

"Oh, you are most certainly wrong about that," Robert thought, smiling. He would take everything from Altaïr. His dignity, pride, arrogance, bravery—and even more. He circled the stool, his boot-clad feet making loud and thunderous steps in the tiny room. The tip of the crop brushed gently, kindly, against the welts on Altaïr's lips. Then, it swept down his chest, over a nipple, and came to rest at the head of Altaïr's length, where it tickled the small slit there.

Robert almost purred with satisfaction as Altaïr's breathing immediately labored as a response. The Assassin tried desperately to hold back a moan; the velvet tip increased in its ministrations against him. The leather wrapped around his shaft reminded him all too well of how painfully hard he was.

"Stop," he commanded through gritted teeth. "Stop this…" His voice wavered now, the previous vigor had vanished. Altaïr then hung his head low, groaning. The crop dipped lower. He struggled against his restraints, pulling his wrists against the thick leather. He did not thrash his feet, knowing it would do him no good. He figured Robert had left his feet unbound as a test of sorts, just to see if Altaïr would resort to useless tactics. But blindfolded, he could do nothing.

"As an Assassin, you are taught the creed, aren't you?" Robert kept the crop where it was, flicking it every so often. "Rules to follow, and yet no manners? There is a word you use in this situation, Altaïr." Altaïr snapped his head back up, baring teeth at Robert.

"I will not beg!" he roared, nearly falling off the chair in his sudden rage. "Not for an enemy!" Another flick of the crop, and Altaïr turned his head to the side, biting his lip. "I will not beg," he repeated. Robert frowned.

"Fine. Then I will make you suffer, Assassin!" The French Templar slammed the crop into the sensitive underside of Altaïr's member, and did it again when he heard him let out a broken cry, immediately intensifying the sting. He was in excruciating pain; blood fell quickly over his lips as he bit through the skin to mask the anguished sounds. "Will you beg now?"

It was faint, barely a whisper, but Robert heard it.

"…No."

Altaïr couldn't help the trepidation that overtook him, a layer of rage attempting to bubble through. He could only listen as the sound of Robert's footsteps grew even closer and finally halted. The Frenchman's scent was right in front of his nose, the smell of sweat, blood, and ultimate arousal. Altaïr could even smell the metallic tang of blood and metal from his sword.

"You are truly courageous, Assassin. Of course, that arouses a certain curiosity in me. I want to know what it is that makes you so bold. No doubt your order chose you for that very reason." Robert tipped Altaïr's head back with a calloused finger. The Assassin jerked his head away.

"We are not chosen. We are born Assassins," he murmured. Robert laughed low in his throat.

"Are you now…?" he questioned, inspecting the sheen of his ink black boots. "That is impressive. The other Assassins have told a tale quite different from that one." Robert raised an eyebrow as Altaïr said nothing. He continued. "Most of them remark that they chose the Creed as to repent for their sins. Defending your land by shedding the blood of innocents is repenting?"

"Templars are anything but innocent. They are foul."

Robert placed the tip of his boot to the leg of the chair. "And you are still blind." With barely a movement, Robert pushed the chair over, knocking the Assassin abruptly onto the floor. Altaïr hissed in agony as he hit the cold stone ground.

The Frenchman bent down to the Assassin, his voice triumphantly smirking in its tone:

"But now, I shall cure you."


End file.
